Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  She walked by him as though he wasn’t even there.

  She passed by so closely, if he stretched out his hand he could touch her wrist. But she never looked up. She kept her eyes on the candle, her hand around the flame.

  It was so disconcerting, he felt utterly stupefied. Several moments passed before he was able to move.

  He was relieved, of course, that she hadn’t noticed him, but mixed in with the relief was a tiny but disquieting flame of anger. It was as if he didn’t even exist. She had glided past him as though he were part of the furniture. But that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? This was how you played the game. You mimicked invisibility. It was the only way to remain a watcher. So why was he feeling angry?

  He was following her down the staircase. He was only steps away. He realised she couldn’t hear him. The sound of the storm was loud; it blotted out any other noise. But surely she must sense his presence?

  The glow of the flame threw her shadow against the wall. Her shadow—and his. Two shadows walking one behind the other. The larger one drawing ever closer… She was bound to see it.

  She didn’t. She was oblivious.

  And now she was leaning forward, candle in one hand, the other checking to see if the door was locked. She rattled the knob.

  If she looked around now, she would see him. He realised, shockingly, that that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted her to look into his eyes. He desperately wanted her to recognise him, to acknowledge him.

  He was sweating like a pig. The hollows underneath his arms were wet. Keeping his moist palms pressed against the wall behind him, he waited.

  • • •

  THE DOOR was locked. Of course it was. She had turned the key herself earlier that evening.

  She pulled the velvet curtains away from the window flanking the door and stared out into the blackness. It was hopeless. She couldn’t see a thing through the driving sheet of rain.

  She let the heavy curtain fall back into place. The candle was sputtering, the wick drowning in dirty wax. She hoped it wasn’t going to die on her. There was a strange smell in the air; she had only just noticed. It was very faint, but it caused her nose to wrinkle in distaste. Sweetish, slightly sour. Body odour?

  She turned around. The hall was empty. The black-and-white squares of the marble floor seemed to float in the flickering light, her shadow a lone queen on a giant chessboard.

  She was imagining things. And it wasn’t the first time. A few days ago she had opened the door to the nursery and had heard the echo of children’s voices and feet clattering. And what about that afternoon she had nodded off in the library, her head resting on the hard surface of the writing desk? She had woken up to find the air redolent with perfume. She remembered thinking that the perfume could only belong to a woman confident enough to wear such a heavy, personalised scent. A beautiful woman with fair hair and pale blue eyes.

  Hallucinations. By-products of loneliness. She was beginning to scare herself. It was time she took stock. Reclusiveness exacted too high a price: the mind becomes fractured and you could lose yourself in the silence. The house had held her in its spell, but it was time she shook herself free from its tyranny.

  What had she hoped to accomplish, anyway? She was turning into a bad joke, trekking through this enormous house with her blankets and her mattress like some pathetic homeless woman. And for what? Because somehow the ridiculous notion had lodged in her brain that she should prepare herself to meet the one person in the world who could make her feel she wasn’t an intruder in her own life. Each of us is travelling through many lives with a map of time clutched in our hands… At some point the timelines of all separated lovers will cross. Well, this was obviously not her time.

  It was enough. Tomorrow she’d call Barry. Return to the world.

  • • •

  THE WATCHER felt sick. He had come close to ruining everything. What had he been thinking of back there?

  Three years ago the same thing had happened. The girl would never have known of his presence if he hadn’t forced her to look at him. She had red hair and a beautiful smile. For one moment he experienced the gratification of having her acknowledge him, truly see him. But then followed the shame and, along with it, the fear of what would happen if she exposed him. Police, the press, cameras, greedy eyes watching him constantly.

  Even as her eyes widened, he struck her. Her head had slapped against the wall with a surprisingly loud noise.

  Carrying her limp body in his arms, he had taken her into the bathroom and filled the bath with water. When he placed her inside, some of it slopped onto the floor. He would dream of that moment for years to come. Her hair spreading around her head like red seaweed. Her face a moon underwater. The long string of oxygen bubbles breaking the surface like translucent pearls.

  He didn’t want that to happen to Justine. No, no, no.

  They needed a break from each other. It was a good thing he would be forced to go away to Scotland.

  If only he could keep the game going without ever having to worry that he might lose control and force her to look at him. He realised how weak he was. The next time around, he might not be able to restrain himself. How to stop that from happening?

  Imagine if he could walk through her life without fear of being observed. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be in the same room and to look into her eyes without her seeing him?

  Maybe this could actually happen. At the back of his mind stirred an idea. A genuinely brilliant idea. It needed some thought, some planning, but it might just work.

  The Watcher’s favourite movie was Magnificent Obsession with Rock Hudson and Jane Wyman. He had watched that movie more times than he could remember. Lovely Jane Wyman, accidentally blinded by playboy Hudson, falls in love with a stranger who enters her life and takes care of her in her disabled state, little knowing that the caring stranger is the remorseful Hudson, the same man who was responsible for her losing her sight. The Watcher never tired of the story. There was something tremendously appealing about it. Beauty and the Beast… and Beast never in danger of being recognised by Beauty…

  Imagine if he were able to come up close. Imagine if he could be in the same room and she’d look at him with eyes that did not see. Midnight eyes.

  Eyes that were blind…

  Two weeks. He had two weeks to plan it all.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE WEATHER this morning was miserable. Grey cotton-wool clouds and a steady drizzle of rain that chilled to the bone. Justine pulled up her collar and adjusted the scarf around her neck. She had used the train this morning, switching to the Tube for the last part of the journey. It would be a relief to get off. The train was packed and she was tired from the effort it took to keep her claustrophobia in check in the midst of the crushing press of bodies.

  Oxford Street was filled with pale-faced people shuffling sullenly to their different destinations. A large van passed by too close to the kerb and its front wheels threw up a spray of dirty water against her coat.

  Shit. She looked down. The bottom part of her coat was soaked. This was all she bloody well needed. After her night of broken sleep chasing phantom intruders through the house, she had woken up tired and with a headache. And now this. Thoroughly out of sorts she trudged through the wide entrance of Waterstones bookshop, her bag almost knocking over a display of the newest bestseller, the cover showing a mad-eyed figure with a dripping knife: He made them beg! He made them scream! Their pain was his joy!

  Barry was already waiting in the coffee bar. When he saw her step off the escalator, he raised his hand in greeting.

  ‘You look like you need something hot to drink,’ he said as she plonked herself into the chair opposite him. ‘Cappuccino?’

  She nodded, leaned over for a kiss on the cheek. ‘You look good.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He smiled. He did look good, she thought as she watched him walk to the counter. He was wearing a moss-green sweater which brought out the colour of his eyes. He was not a handsome ma
n in the traditional sense of the word, but his intelligence and innate kindness showed on his face. No wonder women always warmed to him immediately.

  She shrugged out of her coat, accidentally bumping the arm of the young man sitting at the table next to her. He and his girlfriend were poring over some snapshots. As she jogged his shoulder, some of the pictures fell to the floor.

  ‘Sorry.’

  She leaned over to scoop up the photographs. Obviously holiday pictures. She caught a glimpse of a young woman in a black bikini on a deserted beach with very white sand. And another one of a huge multicoloured air balloon with smiling passengers clutching a bottle of champagne.

  She straightened. The young man was glaring at her. As though she had done it on purpose, she thought irritably, pushing the pictures into his outstretched hand.

  Barry placed a froth-capped cup of coffee in front of her. ‘Here you go.’

  She picked up the spoon and scooped the chocolate sprinkles into her mouth.

  ‘I like your hair like that.’ He was looking at her appraisingly.

  ‘Thanks. I just haven’t had the chance to have it cut.’

  ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Maybe I should keep it this way, then.’ She looked away, took a sip of her coffee.

  ‘You also look tired.’

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.’

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Not really.’ She picked up the spoon again, twirled it around in her fingers before replacing it in the saucer once more. She looked up at him. ‘I think I’m ready to return to London.’

  His face lit up. ‘When, exactly?’

  ‘Well, I’d have to give notice, I suppose. I’ll call the estate agent when I get back, find out what needs to be done.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am. I was worrying myself sick about you out there on your own. And then that spooky stuff with the photographs…’

  ‘Yes, well. Let’s just say it’s been an experience.’

  She looked over at the table next to them. The young man and his girlfriend had almost worked their way through the stack of snapshots. The glossy pictures with their slick surfaces were piled precariously on top of each other. If he wasn’t careful, the pictures would land up on the floor again. Some were starting to slide out from underneath the others…

  She blinked. She suddenly felt as though she couldn’t breathe properly. The hum of voices around her was all at once muted, as though her ears were stopped with water.

  ‘Justine.’

  She turned her head slowly toward Barry. He was watching her frowningly. His mouth opened again and he said something, but she couldn’t grasp his words. It was as though her brain had shut down.

  She looked back at the pile of snapshots. Her hand reached out as if of its own volition and she grabbed the pictures with clumsy fingers.

  ‘Oy!’ The young man was staring at her, his mouth an outraged O, his face distorted with anger and what could be alarm. The girl, eyebrows lifted, looked as startled as if she’d been slapped.

  ‘Where was this taken? Tell me, where was this?’ Justine thrust one of the pictures into the young man’s face, grabbed his arm so hard that she saw him wince.

  ‘Are you mad?’ He swiped her hand off his elbow.

  ‘Justine. What is it? What’s wrong?’ Barry’s face was a mask of concern.

  She tried to speak, but her voice was suddenly gone. She could only point at the picture clutched between her fingers.

  He leaned forward. ‘What?’

  ‘Look.’ Her voice was high and shaky.

  He took the picture from her. She saw his expression sharpen.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you people?’ The young man was now red in the face and had pushed himself to his feet. ‘You have no right. Give me back—’

  ‘Sir, I’m sorry.’ Barry spoke softly, but something in his voice caused the young man to sink back into his seat slowly. ‘Our apologies,’ Barry continued, ‘but please, we need to know where this photograph was taken.’

  The girl spoke for the first time. ‘We took these during our honeymoon.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Did a wilderness tour of Namibia, didn’t we?’

  Namibia. Justine closed her eyes briefly.

  ‘They have wolves like this over there?’ She touched the picture with the very tip of her finger.

  ‘It’s not a wolf.’ The young man was still looking at her warily, but the outright alarm in his eyes had faded. ‘It’s called a strandwolf, but it’s really a brown hyena. They’re very rare. We were lucky to see one. We were exploring this old ghost town and there it was.’

  ‘Ghost town.’

  ‘Yes. We have some pictures of it.’ He picked up the photographs and thumbed through the stack. ‘See?’

  The picture he was holding out at her was an inexpertly-taken snapshot, but she recognised it instantly. Derelict houses with broken windows and mounds of sand creeping into the empty rooms. The picture was taken from exactly the same vantage point as one of the pictures in the book she had discovered in the library at Paradine Park.

  ‘It isn’t the only ghost town around there,’ the girl said. ‘This one has become a bit of a tourist attraction—there’s a museum there and everything—but apparently there are others as well that are completely unspoiled. We didn’t have the time to look for them, but I’d love to go back there one day and explore properly.’

  Justine stared at the picture and in her mind’s eye she saw words written in a strong hand, words that had haunted her ever since she first discovered them secreted in a margin next to this image of total desolation.

  Is this redemption?

  ‘Please. May I have these?’ She picked up the snapshots of the strandwolf and the house. ‘I’ll pay for them. Anything. But please, I need these.’

  The young man and the girl looked at each other. Then the girl shrugged. ‘They’re yours. We don’t want anything. We can always print copies.’ She reached into her bag and took out a pen. ‘Here. This is the name of the nearest town.’ She turned the picture over and scribbled something on the back.

  ‘Kepler’s Bay.’ Justine said the words tentatively.

  ‘It’s in the south-western corner of the Namib. Difficult to get there.’ The girl got to her feet and looked at the boy. ‘We should get going, what do you think?’

  ‘Sure.’ He picked up the remaining pictures and dropped them into his satchel. For a moment he stood looking at her awkwardly. ‘OK, then.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Justine’s voice was thick with emotion. ‘Thank you so much.’

  He bobbed his head, embarrassed. ‘No problem. Glad we could be of help.’ He took the girl’s arm and they moved away. At the top of the escalator they looked back over their shoulders, their faces still puzzled.

  ‘He’s in Namibia. Here, at this place. Kepler’s Bay.’ Justine tapped with her finger on the picture.

  ‘He?’

  ‘Adam Buchanan.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘There is a connection between the wolf and this man.’

  ‘This man. The guy who killed his brother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know how crazy that sounds?’

  ‘I know. But I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.’

  ‘Well…’ He stopped, looking lost. ‘Well, let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re right. So what?’

  ‘So what?’ She made an irritable gesture with her hand. ‘I have to go there. I have to find him.’

  He stared at her and it was clear that words had failed him.

  She spoke rapidly, her thoughts racing. ‘Do you think they have non-stop flights to Namibia? I should have asked those people. Does BA fly there? I still have some frequent flyer miles. Although if you want to use them you have to book at least two weeks in advance, don’t you? That’s too long. I need to go now. And to hell with giving notice.’


  He found his voice. ‘You’re serious.’

  ‘I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘Why the hell would you want to go chasing after a killer, for God’s sake? Have you lost your mind?’

  The sudden fury in his voice brought her up short.

  ‘Barry.’ There was something in his eyes she had never seen before. It made her feel insecure, as though the world around her had all at once become very fragile. ‘I don’t know how to explain this to you. I feel it here.’ She touched her hand to her breast. ‘He and I… we are linked. I know it. I will never be at peace unless I find him. This is the man I’ve been waiting for my entire life.’

  Silence. His lips were tight, his face paper-white. The expression in his eyes was one of confusion and anger.

  ‘He’s a murderer.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘A man without conscience. A man without compassion.’ He paused. ‘This is sick.’

  She didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. What was there to say?

  ‘I can’t wait for you forever, Justine. Even the most deathless love needs oxygen.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She placed her hand on his.

  He took her hand and quite deliberately removed it from his wrist.

  ‘Don’t be like this, please.’ Her eyes were wet.

  For another moment he stared at her stonily, then his face seemed to sag. He passed a hand across his mouth.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. She sniffed, gulped.

  ‘Don’t cry.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I can’t bear it.’

  For a while they sat in silence, simply looking at each other. The coffee bar had filled up. A sour-faced woman and her teenage daughter were edging steadily closer, looking pointedly at the empty coffee cups in front of them.

  ‘Maybe we should leave.’

  He got to his feet. He moved stiffly.

  The weather had changed from miserable to foul. Outside it was pelting rain, large icy drops chasing pedestrians into the shelter of shop entrances and restaurants.

  ‘Do you have an umbrella?’ Barry’s voice was formal, polite.